


Thelonius Monk Played Funk

by KitsJay



Category: Common Law
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 01:36:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitsJay/pseuds/KitsJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wes plays the blues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thelonius Monk Played Funk

The new house wasn't as nice as his old one - the yard was _abysmal_ , and Wes just knew he was going to spend hours trying to get rid of all the crabgrass taunting him - but it was his and a step forward. A step away from his old life.

Dr. Ryan and the others had assured him it was a good sign, a step in the right direction, but standing in the middle of the empty place, devoid of any furniture, with only the memory of the _click-clack_ of the realtor's heels across hardwood floors, he had to wonder if they were right. A step, but it felt like it was closer to the edge of a cliff than anything else.

 

"You couldn't have - " Travis broke off with a grunt before continuing, "hired movers?"

"Do you have any idea what they wanted to charge me?"

"A reasonable amount?" Travis snarked back.

"Stop going so fast!" Wes snapped. "I'm the one walking backwards, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah," Travis said, but slowed, though that might have been more due to the fact that he was holding one end of a 540 pound Steinway grand piano more than in deference to Wes's shuffling walk.

The piano hit the ground and Wes winced, immediately bending to check for damage to the floor and legs. Travis leaned up against it, wiping his forehead.

"I hope you actually play this thing," he griped. Wes smacked one of his hands away from lifting the keyboard cover.

"Stop that. This is a finely tuned instrument. And yes, I play."

Travis made a face. "More of that slow jazz?"

"Rap is surprisingly hard to master on a classical instrument," Wes responded dryly before grabbing a beer. The rest of the furniture stayed at Alex's - he would have to buy new stuff - but for now, after Travis had left, there was just a bare wood floor, the windows letting in streams of darkness from outside and dancing shadows on the walls, and himself. It didn't feel lonely at all.

 

Sometimes, when he couldn't sleep, Wes would get out of bed, murmuring comforting sounds to Alex, and go downstairs to his piano. He would put up the keyboard cover and caress the ivory and black keys, allowing his fingers to move gracefully over them - never touching, in deference to Alex's sleeping form upstairs - but just enough that they remembered what the song sounded like. It was the closest he got to peace, toward the end.

 

Travis never liked jazz and blues - it was too slow. He wanted something that made his blood heat up and his feet bounce and his head nod. He wanted something you could go 140 miles per hour to and feel your hand catch on the wind outside of the open car window. Jazz felt like old people music, something people claimed to like to sound like they were more cultured than they really were.

He had just meant to grab Wes, maybe drag the guy out for a beer after the case they had worked because hell, why not? So he had just walked in, figuring Wes heard the knock at the door and it was unlocked anyway.

He didn't expect to see Wes sitting at the piano, pale skin all surrounded by glossy black polish, those slim lines of his form translating into fingers that glided, and flew, and moved like they were part of the song. It was a bluesy number, so melancholy it made something in him shift, and for once he was still - the music wasn't the type you could dance to, it was the music of men down on their luck, faces surrounded by smoke and the smell of work and tears and lost dreams. If he listened close, and he did, because this was the kind of music that you got lost in if you just paid enough attention, he could hear a woman's voice singing in a voice worn raw, so close to giving up, and the men staring at her with lust in their eyes.

It was all the ugliness of life, the worst parts of it, and yet in between each slinky note, it was absolutely beautiful.

Wes seemed to not notice him as he wrapped it up, letting his hands pass on the keys one last time.

Travis suddenly felt that he was intruding and disappeared before Wes could see him, closing the door behind him and leaning his head against the frame.

He needed a beer. And maybe while he was out, he could pick up a blues album.

**Author's Note:**

> One of my favorite songs, which is what got me into blues in the first place: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lYF69nHzywI "The Shoes of the Fisherman's Wife are Some Jive-Ass Slippers" by Charles Mingus.


End file.
